Tomb With a View

13

Every time I picked up the newspaper, I expected to see some screaming headline about how the cops (read that, Quinn) had made major strides in solving Marjorie’s murder. Every time I turned on my TV, I held my breath, hoping against hope that I might not see You-Know-Who’s gorgeous face looking back at me. I knew him well, see, and I knew that when the big moment came, when the lights were on and the cameras were rolling, he’d be his usual chilly as a frozen cucumber self in front of the crowd. Oh yeah, he’d be all about business. His jaw would be tight. His shoulders would be rock steady inside a suit no cop should be able to afford. His voice would be impassive as he told the world he had a suspect in custody.

His eyes, though . . . his eyes would spark with a message meant just for me: Take that, Pepper. I solved it before you did!

The fact that he didn’t even know I was investigating said something about how paranoid I was about the whole thing. And how determined.

Was it any wonder I was itching to get back to my investigation?

Too bad working at Garden View tends to get in the way of my real life. Perfect example: the next day. After missing work on Wednesday in the name of paying a visit to Nick’s home, then darting off to Marjorie’s, I couldn’t very well call off again. So there I was, all day Thursday, stuck in the memorial. And all day, there were people in and out.

None of them was Jack. This was unfortunate, because it meant I didn’t have a chance to satisfy my curiosity about either what he was up to or if he was really as good a kisser as I remembered. And no, the sign outside the stairway that led up to the ballroom wasn’t moved again. I knew that for certain because I dragged myself up and down those darned winding steps five times that day, just to check.

So that part of my investigation was at a dead end.

There was no sign of the president, either, so even though I doubted he’d been paying enough attention to remember one tourist, I couldn’t question him about Gloria Henninger’s visit to the memorial. I wondered if she was part of the comings and goings he complained about. I wondered why Gloria lied about never being in the cemetery. I wondered what business she could have had there, and of course, considering how much she liked “that Klinker woman,” I wondered if she’d murdered Marjorie.

I had no answers and no way to find them considering I was stuck inside catering to tourists like . . . well, like I was the cemetery’s official tour guide.

And again, my investigation was up against a brick wall.

With nothing left to do, I actually worked like a dog that day. I showed visitors around, and talked about presidential history and mosaics and marble and all that other stuff, and even though I mostly didn’t know what I was talking about and made up half of what I told them, they all seemed pretty pleased and left there thinking they knew more than they did when they walked in. Even at four o’clock when it was time to lock up, I still wasn’t done. At Ella’s request, I headed to the administration building to proofread the latest edition of her Garden View newsletter. After bailing out on her the day before, I figured it was the least I could do. It was six o’clock by the time I left the cemetery, and even then, I didn’t head home. I know, I know . . . a private detective’s work is never done. I had no choice. I went right back to Marjorie Klinker’s.

I still had all her junk in the trunk of my car, remember, and a boatload of questions to ask Nick.

I parked in what was becoming my usual spot and hurried up the front porch stairs. At that time of the year, it was still light in the evening, and I guess it was a good thing it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have screeched to a stop when I noticed the gouges all along the front door jamb. I bent closer for a better look. Sure enough, the lock had been forced.

My first reaction was surprise. But I am ever practical. Especially when it comes to danger. My second thought was that I needed reinforcements. Obviously, when anything happened in the neighborhood, Gloria and Sunshine were the first to know, and I had already made a move toward their house when I saw that there was no car in Gloria’s driveway, no lights on in the house, and no signs of movement from inside. Didn’t it figure, the one time I needed the neighborhood busybody, she was out for the day.

Left to my own devices, I put a finger to the door and pushed. It had been closed, but not all the way, and it swung open. I’d seen my share of cheesy horror movies in my day; I knew better than to go inside alone. But honestly, I couldn’t help myself. I took one look and caught my breath. I just had to step inside for a better look.

Close up, what I saw was even more astounding. The neat piles of Garfield pictures had been swept off the couch and were scattered all over the floor. The books were unstacked from the chairs and tossed all around. The pile of knickknacks near the fireplace looked like it had been hit full force by a tornado. Stuff was everywhere, knocked over, messed up, gone through.

Gone through. Yeah, that’s what I said. Like somebody was looking for something.

I couldn’t imagine what, so I guess it was a good thing I didn’t have a chance to think about it. Then again, when I heard a noise from the den, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, either. Too late, I realized that just like what happens in all those B horror flicks, I wasn’t alone in the house.

Something told me it wasn’t Nick. From what I’d heard about his sudden change of heart, I knew he wouldn’t have been skulking around in parts unknown. He would have been there in the living room, weeping over the mess and cataloging like a fiend even though he should have been home concentrating on those pink and red M&Ms.

The realization settled in my stomach like ice, and I held my breath and inched back toward the front door. I should have moved faster. That way, I would have been within getting-out distance when a man walked out of Marjorie’s den.

I don’t know who I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t friendly-as-a-teddy-bear Ray Gwitkowski. I shot forward, surprised, sure, but relieved, too. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked him. “And what happened to this place?”

“Don’t ask me.” As if I’d just told him to stick ’em up, Ray held up both hands, distancing himself from the mess. “It was like this when I walked in. Honest. And hey, kid . . .” He bent forward as if he needed a closer look to be sure it was me. “You’re the last person I expected to make a return appearance at Marjorie’s. What are you doing here?”

Don’t think I didn’t notice that he’d asked the same question I’d asked him.

Or that he’d never answered mine.

“It sure didn’t look like this the last time we were here, did it?” Ray propped his fists on his hips and looked around. “You know, the night we both were here to see Marjorie.”

“And it didn’t look like this yesterday, either,” I told him. “Yesterday it was all organized and neat. And today . . .” I looked back toward the smashed lock on the front door. “Did you do that? Did you break in?”

“Absolutely not. No way. I just stopped by and I wasn’t even planning to come in. But then I saw that the lock was banged up, and the door was open and . . .” His shoulders sagged and he scraped a hand through his hair. “It’s like this . . . I was hoping to get in and out of here and I was praying that nobody would notice. And now here you are.” Ray was still wearing his Garden View volunteer shirt. It matched the one I was wearing except that mine had the word STAFF embroidered over the heart. His face turned as sickly yellow as the color of our shirts. “I think I might be in big trouble, kiddo.”

It wasn’t what he said that made me believe him. It was the way he looked. Miserable. Ray’s arms hung limp at his sides. His eyes were tormented. I picked my way through the framed pictures of President Garfield and the books spread out all over the living room floor, sat down on the couch, and patted the seat beside me. “You want to tell me about what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to tell anybody. It’s too embarrassing. And . . .” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure what I did was illegal, too. I don’t . . .” When he looked at me again, his eyes were pleading. “I don’t want to get in any trouble. I’ve led a good, honest life. It’s a little late in the game for me to be going to jail.”

Had I just invited a murderer to sit down beside me?

I admit, the thought crossed my mind. Too late to take back my invitation. Ray came over and plunked down on the couch.

I consoled myself with the fact that, number one, I was wearing sneakers and not high heels. Which meant I could probably get through the minefield that was Marjorie’s living room pretty easily, even if it did mean crunching a couple pictures of President Garfield in the process. Number two, Ray was old, and he was visibly shaken. I was pretty sure I could outrun him.

Just to be sure, I glanced at the front door, gauging the distance and the best way to get there. Sure of my escape route, I got down to business. Obviously, I do not mean cemetery business.

“I know it doesn’t seem likely,” I said, folding my hands in my lap, the better to look professional and proficient. “But I’ve had some experience when it comes to things that are illegal.”

He nodded. “I’m not surprised. You’re one smart girl, and I heard Ella talking once. She said something about how you helped find out who killed somebody.”

I sloughed this off. After all, if Ray was a murderer, I didn’t want him to think I was too good. “Ella tends to exaggerate. But I have been . . . well, sort of involved in a couple investigations. That’s why I went to Big Daddy Burger to talk to you the other day, Ray. I’m trying to figure out some things. You know, about Marjorie’s murder.” I wisely did not mention that one of those things was who dun it. Just in case. Instead, I kept things cool and noncommittal. “I’ve just been wondering. That’s all. You know, about everything that happened. I can’t figure it out.”

“Wish I could help.”

I stared at him in a way that should have told him he could, if only he’d open up and tell me what was going on. But since Ray was so busy wringing his hands and looking at the floor, I guess he didn’t notice. That’s why I had to egg him on.

“What are you doing here, Ray?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. He tapped one foot against the carpet. Just when I thought he was going to spill the beans, he folded. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than the way Marjorie strung you along so that you’d take her to dinner and the movies?”

It was a good move on my part. He had no choice but to shake his head. “Not more embarrassing than that,” he admitted. “But still . . .”

I am not usually an ease-into-the-subject sort of person. It’s a waste of time, and honestly, I don’t have the patience for that sort of nonsense. But I could tell that Ray was going to need some coaxing.

I eased into the subject.

“Nobody liked Marjorie,” I said, and sure it was an understatement and went without saying, but remember, I was easing here. “She was a bully.”

“A self-righteous bully.” Ray’s shoulders rose and fell. “That’s the worst kind.”

“Which doesn’t mean she should have died the way she did.”

I was hoping he’d agree with me. Instead, he sat up straight and asked, “Do you think it’s all right to pay somebody back for the bad things that somebody did to you?”

I turned in my seat, the better to keep both eyes on Ray. “You mean Marjorie.”

He nodded. “Do you think revenge is all right? I mean, if it’s justified?”

My throat was suddenly dry. I swallowed the sand. “If you’re talking about murder—”

“Murder? Oh my, no way!” A touch of green added to the sallowness of Ray’s complexion. “I hope you don’t think—” He blanched because, of course, from what he’d just said, it was the only thing I could think. He slid me a look. “You gonna tell the cops?”

“Not if there’s nothing to tell them.”

“You gonna think less of me?”

“That, I can’t say.” I scooted just a titch closer. I was trying to establish some kind of rapport, after all. I needed every advantage I could get. “I don’t know what I’ll do or say until you tell me what’s bugging you.”

He laughed uncomfortably. “It’s a biggee.”

“Bet I’ve heard it before.”

I was pretty sure my strategy wasn’t working. Ray sat there like a lump, and I was all set to chalk the whole thing up to faulty psychology when he pulled in a breath and let it go along with a sigh. “That day when you came to see me at Big Daddy Burger, I wasn’t exactly truthful with you, Pepper,” he said. “Not completely anyway. And it wasn’t like I wanted to lie to you. I just couldn’t help myself. You see, when you asked me what I was doing here at Marjorie’s that night—”

“You told me you came here to tell her to get lost. Because of that rude note she sent you about Nick’s wedding.”

Ray nodded. “Well, that’s true insofar as it goes. That’s why I came here. I wanted to tell her that I was tired of being taken advantage of. And I did. I wanted her to know that Ray Gwitkowski is nobody’s patsy. And I told her that, too. I wanted to make her understand—loud and clear—that I was tired of her stringing me along. I did that, too. But I also . . .” He hung his head. “I did something else, too.”

So he wasn’t about to confess that he’d killed Marjorie. Not that night, anyway. Not unless he loaded her body into a car, drove all the way to the cemetery, dragged her into the memorial and up that corkscrew stairway just so he could hurl her off the balcony.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever he told me, it couldn’t come anywhere near murder.

“I never meant for it to happen,” Ray said. “It was just . . . well, you remember, Marjorie and I went into the den to talk. That’s when I was all set to tell her how I was tired of waiting for that get-rich scheme she promised me. I’d had it with her. I would have told her right then and there, too. If you hadn’t knocked over whatever it was you knocked over in here.”

I looked toward the fireplace. The day before, that vase with the long, old-fashioned hat pins in it had been set right next to it. Today, the vase was knocked over and lying on its side about five feet away.

“It was those hat pins,” I told Ray, pointing. “They made a lot of noise when they hit.”

He nodded. “And Marjorie came running. That’s when I had a couple minutes alone there in her den and that’s when . . .” Color shot up his neck, and even the tips of his ears burned red. “I was in there by myself,” Ray said. “And I was waiting for Marjorie to get back and I was just standing there by the desk. And that’s when I saw it.”

“Saw—?”

Before I could even finish my sentence, Ray leapt up off the couch and went into the den. Apparently old people can move pretty fast when they want to. I told myself not to forget it, and just in case he was planning to come back into the living room with some kind of weapon, I got up, too, and edged over to the door.

He was back in a jiffy and he picked his way through the junk on the floor and handed me a—

“Credit card?” I turned it over in my hands.

Ray nodded. “It was on Marjorie’s desk next to her computer along with a printout from an auction site. You know, one of those places that specializes in historical artifacts. You know she was addicted to Garfield memorabilia, and apparently, she always had her eye out for new things. This particular site had an auction in progress. Marjorie had one of their offerings circled. It was a paperweight and the bottom of it was etched with an excerpt of one of President Garfield’s speeches. In Japanese.”

“And she wanted to buy it?” Impossible to understand, but I couldn’t let that distract me. “So you were in the den and Marjorie and I were out here. And you found the credit card and the listing about the paperweight and—”

“And I realized she was going to buy it. The paperweight, I mean. She had underlined the parts of the printout that said what time the auction closed. Exactly eleven fifty-nine that night we were both here.”

“And so Marjorie had her credit card out, all set to get in on the auction at the last minute and scoop up the paperweight.” It was pretty obvious, so I wasn’t exactly happy when Ray shook his head.

“You almost got it right,” he said. “But not exactly. I don’t doubt she was planning on using that credit card to get in on the auction and buy the paperweight. But look at it, Pepper. It’s not hers.”

“Not hers?” I took another look at the credit card and my heart bumped against my ribs.

Ray was right. Marjorie Klinker’s name was nowhere on the card. Somebody named Bernard O’Banyon’s was.

I looked from the card to Ray. “So who’s this Bernard guy?”

He shrugged.

“And why did Marjorie have his credit card?”

Another shrug.

“And do you suppose this has anything to do with her murder?”

This time, he didn’t even bother to shrug, and I couldn’t blame him. I was reaching. We both knew it.

“I want you to know, I never meant to do anything with the card. But there I was with it in my hands. And she was out here lecturing you. That voice of hers, that attitude, it was like a knife inside me, twisting and twisting. It brought up the whole, ugly situation all over again and I . . . well, I can’t say what happened. I guess I went a little crazy.”

Ray was too upset to stand still. He kicked the stolen framed piece of railroad station tile out of the way and paced out the distance to the den and back again.

“This is the first really dishonest thing I’ve done in my whole life,” he said. “And the only explanation I have is that Marjorie made me do it. You see . . .” When he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I took that credit card. Slipped it in my pocket, just like that. Before Marjorie got back in the room. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I just really meant it to be a joke, you know? I thought about how Marjorie would go into the den right before that auction was set to close. Then I pictured how she wouldn’t be able to find that credit card, and how she’d be madder than a wet hen. It was cruel, I know, and a cowardly way to get even with her. But I figured she had it coming for all she put me through.”

“So you swiped the credit card. That’s what you were getting all tweaky about when I talked to you at Big Daddy that day. Every time I mentioned money, you looked like you were just about ready to jump out of your skin.”

“I knew you didn’t know I’d taken it. I mean, how could you? But I still felt plenty guilty. I was just going to string Marjorie along. You know, the way she did to me all that time with her promises. I was never planning to use it. In fact, I was just thinking that I’d stop by the memorial the next day and leave the credit card on the desk there where I knew she’d find it. By then, she would have missed the auction and that stupid paperweight she wanted. Would have served her right.”

“And did you?”

Ray’s cheeks got chalky. “You mean, did I stop by the memorial? Or did I use the credit card?”

“Ray!” I closed in on him, flapping the card in his face as I did. “You used it? Somebody else’s credit card? Do you know how incredibly dumb that is?”

“I did. I do. I shouldn’t have, but . . .” He went back over to the couch and collapsed, his head in his hands. “After I left here, all I could think about was the way Marjorie had lied to me all those months. She told me we were going to get rich together, and instead, all she did was lead me on and treat me like a fool. I didn’t start out being angry, just disgusted with myself. But the more I thought about it, the crazier it made me. Finally I was so mad, I couldn’t see straight. And then I thought about the credit card I put in my pocket, and how it would serve her and this Bernard guy right if I got back some of my own. I’d taken Marjorie out for so many dinners, waiting for her to tell me more about how much money we were going to make. So . . .” He sniffed. He coughed. He scraped a finger under his nose. “I went to Ruth’s Chris on the way home and had myself a really nice meal.”

Truth be told, I couldn’t blame him. Even if I never would have had the nerve to do the same thing myself. Instead of admitting it, I went for the obvious questions. “They didn’t flag the card? You got away with it?”

“They never batted an eye. And I spent a lot of money. I don’t get out much these days. Me and Vanessa, we used to go out to dinner once in a while, you know, for special occasions. But then she got sick and the bills started piling up, and . . .” He rubbed his eyes with his fists. “In my whole life, I never enjoyed a steak as much as I did the one I ate that night. Until I got home, that is. I was up all night with indigestion, and it wasn’t the food, I know that. It was my conscience talking, telling me that I didn’t deserve that expensive dinner, that I’d done something I shouldn’t have done. The next morning, I checked the phone book, but I couldn’t find anyone with the name that’s on that credit card. So I did the next best thing. I worked three extra shifts at Big Daddy that week, got the money together, and sent cash to that restaurant, just to make myself feel better. Cost me a bundle, but at least I’ve been able to close my eyes every night.”

He knew he did the right thing, he didn’t need me telling him. Besides, I was too deep in thought to say much of anything. I tapped the credit card against my chin, thinking, and I was still wondering what it all meant when we left the house and closed the door behind us and when I stared at that credit card all night, unable to sleep.

Of course the solution hit me right around three in the morning when it was too late to do anything about it. I waited until the sun was up and hit the cemetery early, the better to get into my office and in front of my computer before anyone was around to bother me.

I found two Bernard O’Banyons listed, neither of them local, and made the calls.

As it turned out, the first Bernard O’Banyon was a bar in Wichita and the man it was named after? Well, he hadn’t been around since sometime in the 1850s. I was hoping his descendants were, and tried the Bernard O’Banyon listed in the Topeka phonebook.

Credit card in hand, I punched in the phone number and started into my spiel. It was all about how I was from the credit card company, and I really needed to talk to Bernard.

“Well, you must have the wrong person.” The woman on the phone sounded sleepy, but then, I didn’t account for whatever time it was in Kansas. “My Bernard, he didn’t believe in credit cards.”

I felt my spirits deflate. “You’re sure?” I asked.

“Sure as sure can be. He used to have one of them gas station cards. You know, for filling up the Buick. But he gave that up back in ’04. That’s when he got his identity stolen.”

My deflated spirits perked up. So did my ears when she added, “That thief, he got it all. Even Bernard’s Social Security number. Used it to rent an apartment in Denver. Imagine the nerve of some people.”

I told her I couldn’t and asked if I could talk to Bernard.

“Talk to him?” I didn’t have to see her to know she held out the phone and gave it a look, like she could see me at the other end of it. “What do you mean, talk to him? Bernard, he up and died back last Christmas.”

Did I thank her for the information before I hung up?

I honestly don’t remember.

But that’s because I was too busy thinking again. About credit cards belonging to dead people, and stolen Social Security numbers. About Marjorie.

And if maybe there was a lot more to her than any of us ever imagined.